


Night Watch

by ballpoint



Category: Marvel 616, Mighty Avengers - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-05
Updated: 2011-05-05
Packaged: 2017-10-21 03:10:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/220255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballpoint/pseuds/ballpoint
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So close to losing Wanda and Clint, haunted by the Winter Soldier, Steve can't accept this new team of Avengers. Tony doesn't quite know what to say.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Night Watch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Muccamukk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muccamukk/gifts).



> Characters and trademarks belong to Marvel Comics and Stan Lee. No profit is being made off this fanwork

Stark Tower slumbered, with soft noises that stirred in _lived in_ places, even such a place as this one.

Steve padded down the stairs and through the rooms until he came into the study. Although not the Avenger's mansion, with its old world luxuries and comfort, Stark Tower had its charms. For instance, the study nothing but clean lines, all information instead of shoved into books, crowding their shelves and curving the lines with their weight- all on slick portable computers, stacked along the wall, vertically like CD cases. You just – plucked a computer from its sleeve – nothing but screens now, with LCD displays and key pads in the screens themselves.

Or, if that didn’t suit, the PC with the screen as big as the far side of a small barn beckoned. When faced with a choice, between a big screen and a keyboard on a desk versus something the size of a student’s notebook- no contest. Steve walked over, and threw himself in the chair in front of the PC – not the seemingly overstuffed pieces of yesteryear – but a sleek, ergonomic sculpture in the profile of an outstretched hand.

Morris chairs hadn't been so bad, Steve allowed himself a brief moment of reflection, before he pressed the button for the computer to boot, and go through the necessary protocols before it started. With the Stark led computers, as little as a few seconds. A few taps took him to search pages, and his fingers hovered over the buttons before he typed in what – or who disturbed him.

 **YOUNG AVENGERS**

A tap on the screen, as he called up images, ignoring _The Daily Bugle’s_ story – with the byline credited to Cat Farrell. Words tended to obscure facts, and he didn’t need someone else’s words colouring his feelings for the time being.

The teen with the mask and the uniform – a shade heavier than Bucky, a couple of inches taller – but nowhere near manhood. _God_ , Steve thought, stirred by pangs of anger and sorrow, _would it ever end?_

“Hey, just saw the light under the door and just thought-“ Tony’s voice tripped into the room before he stepped in, and Steve felt, as much as heard Tony stop short.

“Steve.”

“Tony.” Steve gave an absent wave, as Tony walked across the room and stood beside him. From the corner of his eye Steve saw the movement of his robe, and drape of his pyjama bottoms, all black silk. Tony’s feet were bare, which probably explained why his steps had been so muffled.

“When you said you wanted to crash for a few days and get some research done,” Tony’s said lightly, “I never thought you wanted – this.”

“The Avengers library didn’t survive Wanda,” Steve replied as he scrolled through the image thumbnails, “if you hadn’t noticed. I don’t want to speak to Ms Farrell, because-“

“It would only feed the press,” Tony agreed, as he scanned the room for something to sit on, only to light on a piece of furniture shaped like an oversized headache tablet- down to the name of the company done in the grooved letters of the much smaller original. With a shrug, he went to retrieve it, dragged it beside Steve’s chair, and sat beside him.

“Yeah, and I’m not in the mood for _quid pro quo_ deals with the press, while children run around playing hero, putting themselves and others in danger.”

“They haven’t done badly so far,” Tony leaned over, gently brushing Steve’s hand aside, as he clicked onto Cat Farrell’s article.

“They shouldn’t be doing any of this at all.”

Tony sighed, as he dropped his hand from the desk to his lap. Steve stared straight ahead at the monitor, his jaw set, the monitor the only light source in the room, and it outlined the steely look in Steve’s eyes, the rigid lines in his body.

A strained silence settled between them. The Stark Tower, so new, unlike the Avenger’s mansion where everyone slept in, the atmosphere feeling lived in, the Stark Tower so _unused_ , it had the chill notes of an expensive hotel. Steve’s prints on the monitor might have been the first time human hands touched and prodded here. The askew placement of the keyboard against the clear acrylic material of the desk -made to look as if the computer and keyboard were suspended in mid air- made it less designer and more lived in. Accommodations, were always for people , not _Architectural Digest_ \- but he couldn’t afford to have a half way house for meta humans again.

“It’s not your fault.” Tony said finally, as he turned his eyes towards the view of the city below them.

“Wanda and Pietro, when they came to us, they were little older than the age of these kids. Even after their time with us, Wanda- you saw what she did. You know what she did, to you.”

“It doesn’t- that’s different.” Restless, Tony jumped up and started to the window.

“No, it isn’t. Wanda. Clint. Vision. They all happened on our watch, Tony. And Bucky-“ Steve’s voice thickened on the last name, before he cleared his throat. “Well, that’s pretty much all on me.”

“They had a choice,” Tony turned around, his hands in the pockets of his robe as he looked at Steve, feeling the chill of the glass as it pressed against his back. “At every stage of the game, Wanda, Clint, Vision hell- even Bucky had a choice. Every battle presented, every time they answered duty’s call. They. Had. A. Choice. You can’t be every one’s keeper, Steve.”

Steve’s fingers tapped at the keyboard, bones shifting underneath skin and the light dusting of hair. He wasn’t wearing his uniform, just soft clothes – a marled grey pullover and jeans, faded at stress points. His hair partially mussed from sleep, but still, Tony had to admit – Captain America wasn’t the costume folded at the foot of the bed that Steve slept in, or in the shield that leaned against the wall just an arm’s reach away. Captain America – honour, justice and duty was Steve Rogers.

“No, but I can stop them from making potentially the biggest mistake of their lives. They can wait until they are adults- until they are mature enough to decide whatever comes next.” Steve expelled a heavy sigh, as he pinched the skin between his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.  
“Okay.”

Steve raised his head, an unasked question in his eyes.

“We’ll get to the bottom of this. Hit up Jessica Jones, see what she knows, then take it from there.” Tony gave a quick roll of his shoulders, before he allowed his head to go back, with a muffled thunk against the glass.

“You don’t seem convinced.”

“It could be anything, it could be nothing. The Avengers are gone, and well, after a decade or so, you become a part of New York’s history, and kids miss that. So they decide to pay homage, along the lines of a tribute band.”

“The Mighty Avengers’ greatest hits?” Steve unbent enough to give a hint of a smile. Tony decided he’d take it as a victory.

“Yeah,” Tony nodded, as he padded from his place at the window towards the door. Tomorrow was going to be a long day and he needed some shut eye. “We’ll find them, and take it from there.” He reached over, and squeezed Steve’s shoulder in passing. “Don’t stay up too long, now.”

“I won’t,” Steve replied, as he stopped his typing to watch Tony go. As soon as the door clicked closed, he turned back towards the monitor again. The image he conjured up, a masked teen in Bucky’s uniform, his kite shield in front of him, forehead height and stared at it.

“Never again,” Steve muttered. “Not not my watch.”

Fin


End file.
